Twenty Minutes in the Life of a Steve
by Trefoil-underscore
Summary: Steve falls off a cliff to his doom. It's fine though. He's used to it.
Steve gave up on melodrama long ago. It's not good for your sanity. Especially not for someone who actually has an excuse-he'd never get up off the floor, quit wailing and tearing his hair out. So he threw over the whole melodramatic malark pretty quickly for a type of self-deprecating humor that came naturally to him. When you're trying to cope with having been given eternal life against your will, and living alone in the middle of nowhere, with lots of monsters that want to gnaw off your limbs and-or convert you to another mindless servant of the Corruption, it's important to keep as much of a grip as you can on your sanity. It's probably going to slip at some point but you don't need to hurry it along.

So naturally, when he found himself dangling from a splintered piece of what had once been a mineshaft support, a rocky floor and river the size of a ribbon visible beneath his feet, he sighed and said "typical." He wormed himself up a little and drove his pickaxe into the support higher up, which gave him more leverage and a chance to rest. Unfortunately it also caused the support to slip further out over the ravine. He fixed his eyes on the ravine wall and clung to the shaft of his pickaxe until it stopped moving, then examined his new position. Any further movement would send him plummeting into the ravine to Certain Death. He rested his cheek against the support and looked up at the shining sky with a playful smile. "Hey!" he shouted. "If you'd like to toss a lightning bolt at me while you're at it, I'm totally cool with that." his voice echoed off the ravine walls. A handful of gravel which had been slowly inching away from its resting place took this incentive to begin falling. A few rocks, noticing the gravel gleefully obeying the call of gravity, decided to join in the fun. They encouraged their friends to join them.

Steve looked up at the small rockslide beginning right over his head. "Well that's fine too." He watched the falling rocks until he saw, with almost a feeling of masochistic satisfaction, the largest one smash into the support. It twisted, flinging him into the air, and he found himself floating spread-eagled above the ravine as a slide of debris tumbled away beneath him, the huge, splintered support twisting with an absurd grace in the air.

Then, naturally, he found himself following it. His heart raced and he felt the wind rushing through his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead. He whooped loudly, listening to the sound bounce off the ravine walls. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered at the moment. He might as well enjoy the ride. He realized that the maniacal laughter he'd begun hearing was his own. He whooped again, flapping his arms in the wind. The river was steadily growing in size. Would he hit it, or the rocks? Probably the rocks. Yup, probably almost definitely the rocks. Not that he could tell from here, but from the way things had been going today, he expected it would be the rocks. He was laughing insanely. He let himself laugh. Laughter was good. He turned his head and noticed his pickaxe floating head-downwards in the air next to him and giggled like a child. The river was now more like a wide blanket than a ribbon. A blanket he was about to fall into, at not a very comfortable speed. Unless, of course, he just hit the rocks. He'd probably hit the rocks. He looked directly beneath him. Yep, rocks. Of course rocks. He closed his eyes and laughed, arms out, running the wind through his fingers. The wind was strong enough now to make his eyes water. Jagged walls, patches of grass, a cave mouth, a floating island and a stunted, clinging tree flashed rapidly past him. The river and rocks now filled his vision when he looked down. He took a final look below him and suddenly wasn't sure if he was going to hit the rocks or the river. He stared beneath him in dismay. Oh, now he saw. He was going to hit neither. That would be much too simple. No. He was going to land on the _edge_ of the river.

It was hard to remember details of what happened. There was a massive concussion as he hit the surface of the water, immediately followed by a massive concussion as he slammed into the rocks directly under the surface of the water. Sometime later he registered the fact that he was falling _again_. He looked around and discovered that he was being precipitated over the edge of a waterfall. He watched the pool below rise to meet him with resignation. Only when he was almost to it did it occur to him to take a breath, and by then it was too late. A great weight of water was pushing him down into cold blue depths. He watched the haze of water slowly obscure his vision. The thunder of the fall trembled all around him, almost like a heartbeat. He was no longer being pushed downwards. He was drifting in a gentle eddy. He spread his arms and began swimming. Soon he was rising, the water was growing clearer and blazing like gold above him, and his lungs were aching. His head broke the surface and he paddled towards the nearest visible land, gasping. Rock met his hands. Rock was underneath him. He pulled himself up and over, falling and rolling onto the riverside. He ached all over and it felt like something important had ruptured. He lay, breathing, looking at the cloud from the waterfall spread in the breeze. Finally he rolled over with a grunt and crawled onto the grass, gratefully laying his head down on a soft patch. Dandelions shone here and there like small suns. A rabbit eyed him from a patch of tall grass with what he interpreted to be a look of disbelief. He tried to get up and failed miserably, tumbling back down. Everything hurt. He covered his face in his hands and started laughing again. It was probably just sanity slippage, but it seemed like the waterfall and the wind were laughing with him.

Herobrine's jaw had dropped away from the rest of his face sometime after Steve had plummeted into the ravine. Only now did he take the opportunity to return it to its customary place. The would-be miner was lying in the grass, probably half-dead, going into hysterics. "Well look at that, he's gone and broken himself again," he said. "Dangit. I was going to oblige." Deranged people were no fun. They were already deranged. You couldn't drive a crazy person crazy. He'd have to give him a few months to calm down before he resumed his favorite sport. Herobrine teleported away from his ledge.

"No-wait, hold on-"

He teleported to the bottom of the ravine and spent some time searching the debris-strewn area where Steve had fallen. Then he teleported into the bottom of the river. The moment he materialized, before the water could push him, he reached for the gleam of blue that he'd seen and teleported back onto dry ground, Steve's diamond pickaxe firmly in his hand. He could use this. And it would mess with Steve if he came looking for it and it was gone. If he had the presence of mind even for that. Herobrine teleported away.

Steve was feeding dandelions to the rabbit, which he had christened Danny. It distracted him slightly from the fact that he was gagging up blood.


End file.
